


when i think about angels

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Dean Winchester, Angel Sam Winchester, Angel Wings, Barebacking, Blasphemy, Church Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Priest Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21587920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Just a dream. It was all just a dream, his mind playing tricks on him. Not a message from God, not a message from an angel, nothing but a fever dream.Maybe—“Look up,” an unfamiliar voice says from up high. Castiel does, and finds two men sitting in the gap between an arch, one leaning back against a pillar, the other with his feet dangling over the edge. Two sets of wings rise from between their shoulders, one gold and freckled with brown spots, the other a brilliant red, tinged with black at the tips.Angels, Castiel thinks, and nearly swallows his tongue.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 155





	when i think about angels

Castiel is supposed to keep the doors open—that much, he knows.

He has a congregation to tend to, strangers to pray for, and mass to conduct every Sunday. He has a flock, his sister told him, and he should be welcoming them inside the cathedral with open arms, even during the worst of the winter and at the most inopportune moments. The people need him, scattered around the parish as they are. They take time out of their day to see him—he should do the same.

Tonight, though. Tonight, Castiel walks the aisles of the church and checks for any forgotten belongings, his steps quick and frantic, echoing off the concrete pillars and walls. Sunlight shines in dull reds through the stained glass, casting the pews in an eerie glow. Moonlight will follow soon. Come night, and Castiel won’t be alone anymore.

His walk finished, Castiel peers outside the open doors and into the empty, snow-covered landscape and listens for the sound of voices or cars. Finding nothing other than the stray cat that sleeps in the confessional, Castiel lets her inside and closes the doors, locking both deadbolts. With it, the night’s chill ceases, yet Castiel shudders in his cassock, a sudden dread filling his veins.

He really is alone. In the dead of night, Castiel is alone in the middle of nowhere, his only company a cat and his own breaths. His shoes tap across the tile floor until he meets the rug running up the aisle; his heart pounds in his ears, and faintly, he swears he hears wingbeats, and not from the crows nesting in the eaves.

“I did what you said,” Castiel says, wincing at the sound of his own voice. Gingerly, he takes a match from the devotional and strikes it, lighting as many of the votives as he can on the right side of the aisle. He repeats the process on the left, until light floods the front of the church, bathing everything it touches in orange and gold.

It’s just as beautiful as it is every day. But the air is different, Castiel thinks. Idly, Castiel rubs the back of his neck and stands before the altar, waiting. Waiting, for what feels like hours. “I did what you said,” he repeats, clearing his throat. “I did what you told me. Show yourself.”

Nothing. The doors remain locked, the sun dwindles to nothing, and the moon rises, beams making their way through the stained glass at his back. Calm, quiet—horrifying.

 _I shouldn’t have agreed_ , Castiel thinks, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He should be home right now, asleep in his own bed. Tomorrow, he’ll head to his day job and forget this night ever happened. _It was just a dream_ , but was it? Dreams are fleeting, unpredictable—the people he talked to last night weren’t even real, but he still came here, stayed long after the last person left, all in anticipation of this moment.

Just a dream. It was all just a dream, his mind playing tricks on him. Not a message from God, not a message from an angel, nothing but a fever dream.

Maybe—

“Look up,” an unfamiliar voice says from up high. Castiel does, and finds two men sitting in the gap between an arch, one leaning back against a pillar, the other with his feet dangling over the edge. Two sets of wings rise from between their shoulders, one gold and freckled with brown spots, the other a brilliant red, tinged with black at the tips.

 _Angels_ , Castiel thinks, and nearly swallows his tongue.

“You thought we wouldn’t show,” the other angel, all auburn hair and swagger, says, grin cocksure and amused. Sitting up, he throws himself over the edge and lands between two pews, wings catching him before he hits the floor. His robe, pure white and unblemished, drags across the rug as he walks, feet silent, quiet as the night. “We can hear you, y’know. Thinking. You think a lot, for a human.”

“That’s what we do,” Castiel croaks and takes a step back. His foot hits the altar steps. The angel continues to advance as his friend jumps down as well, red wings spreading and tucking neatly behind his back. “I’m hallucinating,” he continues, swallowing thick. “You’re not real.”

“We’re real,” the other angel says with a nod. “You prayed to us, Castiel.”

They couldn’t look any different, Castiel thinks. Gold-winged, the angel at his front is beautiful in a way Castiel can barely describe, freckles dusting his cheeks and his nose, eyes so green he could lose himself in them. His lips, though, are sin, pink and plush and gleaming with repeated licks. Castiel longs, strangely, to touch his ears, the curve of his throat, the bow above his lips.

His friend spreads his wings as he ventures nearer, the black in his feathers more prominent with the moon shining through the glass panes. Hazel eyes watch Castiel, somewhat sad, but longing all the same. Unlike his partner, he wears his hair long, curling around his shoulders; black fabric pools around his ankles, obscuring his feet.

Neither of them can be real. This is just another dream—maybe he never woke up to begin with.

“Thinking, again,” the golden angel says. He takes a step up and backs Castiel into the altar, his face so close, breath sweet against his lips. “Call me Dean,” Dean says, low, and takes Castiel’s hand in his. He’s warm, scalding in a way that eases the chill from Castiel’s bones, and then some.

“And I’m Sam,” Sam says. Standing at Castiel’s side, he presses his chest to Castiel’s arm, wings forming a cocoon over both him and Dean. The lights from the candles flicker from view, Castiel’s world replaced with feathers and warm skin, lips pressing to his throat, just above his collar. Sam touches his hip over the cassock; Dean fumbles with the buttons, easing the fabric open. “Trust us, Castiel,” Sam rumbles.

“You can trust us, can’t you?” Dean asks, mouthing wet kisses up his neck, to the spot below Castiel’s ear. Castiel’s knees buckle; Sam keeps him upright with just a hand. “You’ve been dreaming about us, Castiel. And I’ve gotta say, I’ve heard my share of prayers, but yours? Oh, yours.” Dean tugs open Castiel’s cassock and slips his hands inside, cradling his hips and dragging him closer, to where Castiel can feel the broad expanse of his body against his own. An unmistakable hardness presses up against the front of Castiel’s slacks; Castiel bites back a moan, much to Dean’s amusement. “You lust for the divine like air.”

“We all heard you,” Sam continues, stroking through Castiel’s hair. He sucks a dark mark to Castiel’s throat, all while shrugging off his cassock and sending it to the floor. His collar ends up somewhere in the pile, and Sam latches onto the spot where it once rested over his throat. “But we were the only ones who saw you for what you really are.”

“Lonely,” Dean says, low, husky.

Sam nods. A thumb runs along his nape, warm and distracting; Castiel leans into it, into _them_ , lips parted and chest heaving. “No one else listened, Castiel,” Sam says, sucking kisses to the back of his neck. “No one except us.”

“Because we care, unlike everyone else.” Chuckling, Dean snakes his arms around Castiel’s back, only to palm his ass. “I mean, you’re named after an angel. That’s gotta be more interesting than Joe Blow wishing he’d win the lottery. No, you.” Foreheads pressed together, Dean lets out a breath, warm against Castiel’s lips. Sam’s hands encircle his waist, pressing flat to his pecs while he kisses his shoulders, the curve of his neck. “You wanted an angel to lay with you. To fuck you, according to your dream.”

“It was—” Castiel starts, then swallows. He can’t think—can barely breathe when Dean kisses him, tongue teasing the seam of his mouth before Castiel lets him in, lets him _take_. Two sets of wings surround him, feathers mingling and rustling, velvety soft. “It was a fantasy,” he says between kisses. Lost, Castiel reaches for whatever he can grab, namely the front of Dean’s garments. Touching an angel is a sin—sleeping with one is blasphemy, of the highest degree. “I didn’t mean—”

“We’re not here to punish you,” Sam says at his back. Deft fingers unclasp his belt buckle, sliding the leather free and tossing it to the floor. Metal clangs; Castiel gasps, eyes rolling back when Sam touches him through his briefs, where he’s straining and warm and _wanting_. “You’re only human. You have desires, wants, and we’re here to fulfill them.”

Dean hums, sucks Castiel’s lower lip between his own. “Think of it like this,” he says, eyes half-lidded. “We’re a hell of a lot nicer than some of our family. And, as it turns out, we like you. _A lot_.” He covers Castiel’s cock to emphasize, the combined weight of his and Sam’s hands drawing a moan from Castiel’s lips. “You took your vows because you thought no one would ever love you enough to see this part of you.”

“See, most humans like, well, humans,” Sam chimes in. He draws one of Castiel’s nipples between his fingers, rubbing it until it stiffens to a hard peak. “But how were you supposed to explain to your family, to your superiors, that it wasn’t women or drink that you lusted for, but for angels?”

“You don’t—” Castiel pants, knuckles white in Dean’s robes. “You don’t know, you don’t—I’m not pure, I’ve never been…”

Dean crowds closer, just as Sam presses in, their bodies practically one as they surround him, envelop him. “You’re pure,” Dean says, resolute.

“Your soul is bright,” Sam says, stroking down Castiel’s chest. “Holy.”

“Holy,” Dean repeats, and in unison, they bathe Castiel in their praise, hands roaming, hips grinding, until tears spring to Castiel’s eyes, his body, his soul, lost to the angels holding him close.

Somewhere between Sam working Castiel’s pants off his legs and Dean leading him away from the altar, Castiel ends up on the floor, spread out between the aisles and staring up at the buttresses. Lying there, he watches Dean work his robes free and toss them to the side, baring the tanned expanse of his flesh before he sinks to his knees, between Castiel’s spread legs. Sam follows, black fabric cast to the side; he kneels at Castiel’s side and kisses him, rougher than Dean but still just as heated, imploring.

For a while, Castiel loses himself in Sam’s kiss and Dean’s lips sucking bruising kisses to his thighs. Fingers trail up and down his skin, kneading his flesh, and Castiel grows harder, hips rising and falling with Dean’s every touch, every breath.

“Are you worried?” Sam asks when Dean spreads Castiel’s legs even wider, lips now trailing wetly over his hips, to the thatch of hair between his legs. Faintly, Castiel nods; Sam smiles and kisses him, then pecks the corner of his lips. “You shouldn’t be.”

“This is a sin,” Castiel mutters, because it is. Or, so he’s always been told.

The truth is, no one has come in contact with an angel in thousands of years, and the scripture regarding their relations is shoddy at best, but the assumption was always there. Never fall into temptation, especially at the hands of the Fallen. But Sam and Dean aren’t Fallen. They still have their wings, and Castiel can feel the righteousness in their touch, the power hidden beneath skin and muscle. They could kill him if they wanted—but they won’t.

Because this is what Castiel wants, has wanted all his life. To be touched like he’s adored, worshipped like he’s the most precious being in the universe. To Sam and Dean, he might as well be.

“You aren’t hurting anyone by wanting this,” Dean reminds him, just as his lips meet the base of his cock, tongue joining in. Castiel throws his head back; Dean wraps his arms around his thighs, keeping him still. “You really let your teachers tell you that living a life of celibacy would keep your soul chaste? Man,” he laughs, licks a wet stripe up Castiel’s cock, “they really don’t know what they’re missing.”

Castiel can’t help but shout when Dean takes him into his mouth, the wet heat intoxicating, surreal. In all of his thirty years, no one has ever handled Castiel this way, hasn’t allowed himself the pleasure of another’s touch. Because that was the way it was supposed to be—Emulate Jesus’ teachings and His life, and receive glory upon his death. But even He couldn’t have anticipated the feel of two angels surrounding him, taking him apart with their fingers, their mouths.

Maybe Dean is right—maybe he didn’t know what he was missing out on.

Sam draws Castiel into another kiss while Dean takes his time, tongue teasing him on the upstroke, tracing the slit of his cock and drawing away precome. Golden wings fan over Castiel’s legs, warm and soft where they touch him. Absently, Castiel reaches out to card through Dean’s hair, gripping Sam’s knee with his other hand, where tendons strain beneath his fingertips. Glancing over, he watches Sam touch himself, the head of his cock disappearing into the tunnel of his fist.

Something primal in Castiel’s gut wants to touch, to taste. He shouldn’t—this isn’t right, but he can’t help but slide his palm up Sam’s thigh, can’t help but take Sam’s cock in hand. Dean takes the opportunity to swallow around Castiel’s length, nose pressed into the curls at the base, and Castiel moans, tightening his grip on Dean’s hair. “Please,” Castiel pants, eyes pinched shut, breath caught. “Please, I—”

“What do you need?” Dean asks after he pulls off. Crawling up Castiel’s body, Dean kisses him, sharing the taste of Castiel’s precome on his tongue. Sam’s gentle fingers smooth through his hair; Dean mouths at his throat, lifting his wings high. “Tell us, Cas.”

“Tell us, Castiel,” Sam says, breathy.

Dreaming about his desires is one thing. Dreams are fleeting and personal, but apparently, dreaming about angels constitutes as prayer. A prayer two angels heard, and a promise two angels intend to deliver on. “Forgive me, Father,” Castiel pants, tugging Dean closer, sinking his fingers into Sam’s thigh, “for my love is blasphemy, and I’m not ashamed.”

The two of them descend upon him then, hands everywhere all at once. Sam kisses him with more heat than Castiel ever anticipated, and Dean sucks purpling marks to Castiel’s collar and down his chest, bruising him for the world to see. Sam’s slick finger travels his stomach and comes to rest between his legs, where it sinks inside, and Castiel throws his head back, a groan caught in his throat. “Please,” he begs when Sam explores him with another digit, curling both of them just where he wants it, spreading him wide. “Please, please, _oh God_ —”

“God isn’t here,” Dean reminds him with mirth. He replaces Sam’s lips with his own, palm spread atop Castiel’s pec; tauntingly, he teases Castiel’s nipple to hardness, and devours every sound Castiel makes, when their wings touch him, when two sets of fingers delve inside, when twin mouths kiss and mark every bit of skin they can find.

If God strikes Castiel down here, then he died a righteous man, a satisfied man. And that, no one can take from him.

No such retribution comes, to his relief. Rather, Sam retrieves his fingers and works his way between Castiel’s thighs. Castiel, wraps his legs around Sam’s waist while Sam reaches behind his back, fingers coming back dripping with sweet-smelling oil. Dean distracts Castiel with a kiss while Sam strokes himself, a soft huff escaping Sam’s lips.

“Do you want him?” Dean asks, sucking kisses along Castiel’s jaw. He pulls his fingers free, leaving Castiel empty, and strokes up the hard ridge of his cock, now twitching in Dean’s grip. “Do you want us?”

 _Yes_ , Castiel screams with everything but his mouth. “Yes,” he gasps, and his eyes roll back when Sam lines up and pushes inside. Castiel clings to his bicep while he moves, chest heaving; Dean holds him steady, whispering softly into his ear while he toys with Castiel’s cock in a loose fist. “Yes, yes—”

“Shh.” Dean kisses Castiel as he moans, licking a stripe along the roof of his mouth. “Or else you’ll let everyone hear.”

 _But I want them to_ , the baser part of Castiel’s brain supplies. _Let them watch._ Dean must hear his thoughts, because he laughs and tightens his grip, and Sam begins to thrust, slow at first, testing the waters. What surprises Castiel more, is how easily he gives in, his body in control of two beings he never imagined would admire him so deeply, would choose him over everyone else. Everything about it should be a sin—probably is a sin, if he looks deeply enough into it—but in that moment, Castiel can’t bring himself to care, not when Dean closes his lips around Castiel’s cock again, or when Sam holds Castiel’s legs open by the knee, lifting him off the floor.

Sweat beads wherever the angels touch him; his muscles strain, and his toes curl as an unfamiliar heat spreads through his veins. Eyes pinched shut, Castiel reaches out to touch Dean and finds his hip, and the hard jut of his cock between his legs; on instinct, he draws Dean into his fist and strokes, and Dean moans, pulling off to return the favor.

“He’s close,” Sam says after a while, a hand in his hair.

Letting Castiel’s legs down, Sam crowds him into the rug and kisses Castiel’s neck, just as his pace quickens, chasing his release. Castiel lets go of Dean as Dean shifts to lie at his side, raking his teeth over the bruises he created, then soothing the marks with his tongue. Something inside of Castiel snaps, with Dean stroking his cock, with Sam’s skin slapping against his own, and a set of red wings unfurl, feathers spread wide.

Around him, the saints in the stained glass watch as Castiel reaches his zenith, back arched up off the rug, and an angel shouts, then stills, the very air surrounding them electrified.

Dean stays close until Castiel comes back into his body, after his heart rate falls to a more natural level and he can breathe again. Sam pulls out shortly after, sprawling out on the other side; he drapes a wing over Castiel’s stomach, just as Dean sits up, stroking himself with Castiel’s seed. Castiel’s mouth waters just watching him, unbidden. “Can I,” Dean asks, and moves before Castiel can even reply, settling between his legs. “Can I, Cas—”

“Yes,” Castiel says—begs, almost, his own voice foreign to his ears. Because he wants, just as much as Dean, just as much as either of them.

Dean barely gives him a moment’s reprieve before he hoists Castiel’s ankle over his shoulder and slides in, the remnants of Sam’s oils and his release slicking his way. Castiel takes a moment to appreciate the differences between them before Dean moves. Where Sam was single-minded, Dean takes his time, kissing him between thrusts, holding his hand when he needs something to grab onto. Most importantly, he talks, mostly goading, but sometimes mirthful, asking him if he likes it, if he’s close.

Admittedly, Castiel isn’t, but even if he was, he would choose to stay here forever, just to watch Dean fall apart, just to feel Sam touch him, lips to his skin. One of Sam’s wings reaches up to touch Dean’s, their feathers intermingling, and Castiel briefly wonders what the significance must be before Dean stutters and pitches forward, elbows bracketing Castiel’s head. Dean comes with nothing but a whine and a prolonged breath, spilling thick inside Castiel.

It takes another minute, but Dean eventually pulls out, chest heaving, still as hard as ever. Castiel admires him for his stamina, and Sam as well, Sam now kissing the spot below Castiel’s ear, wet and heated. Feathers litter the floor, some lingering on Castiel’s skin, others stuck in his hair. Sam and Dean’s wings still interlock, forming a blanket over the three of them.

Given the chance, and Castiel would stay here for the rest of the night, and maybe into the morning. “I liked that,” Castiel says, grinning. “Maybe too much.”

“Always happy to please,” Dean laughs. “What d’you say, Sammy? Think we’ll stick around here for a while?”

Sam considers it, a finger pressed to his smiling lips. “I don’t know, seems a bit too small here. And I mean, the priest isn’t hot or anything.”

To that, Dean chuckles and pats Castiel’s stomach. “Up to him, after all. We’ve got nowhere to be, but what about you?”

Castiel lets out a breath, considers it. In truth, he hasn’t spoken to anyone aside from small talk for the last few weeks, and Dean and Sam look like they could listen, if they were willing. And they look willing—for just about anything, apparently. The truth of it is, Castiel is lonely. Has been for a long time, and companionship helps. Especially if they stay. Especially if they do that again. “I’d like that,” he decides, closing his eyes. “I only have one bed at home, though.”

“We’ll fit,” Dean assures, his tone salacious, sending fresh heat through Castiel’s body. “Won’t we?”

“I think we’ll fit,” Sam replies with a smirk. “I don’t think we’ve ever been invited to a house before.”

“Must be nice,” Dean hums. Rolling over, he wraps an arm around Castiel’s waist and pulls him close. Sam follows, tucked up against Castiel’s back. “Must be warm. Nicer than the floor.”

Castiel can’t help but laugh, wrapped in their wings. “It’s so much better,” he assures. “So much better, now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! I've been working on a new book lately, but this popped into my head after two attempts to write wincestiel, so here you go! Now back to... possibly working on the book again. Happy Thanksgiving to y'all in America and happy beginning of the holiday season! Gobble gobble.
> 
> Title is from the Jamie O'Neal song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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